Reignite
by himynameismustangroy
Summary: What you are about to read is a very human side of Roy Mustang during his isolation in North Amestris. Oneshot, Conqueror of Shamballa timeline, Royai


_**Reignite**_

_**A Royai fanfiction**_

**Comments**: What you are about to read is a very human side of Roy Mustang during his isolation in North Amestris.

* * *

The eerie silence surrounds the lone corporal. The darkness—haunting, lingering, piercing— provokes him of nostalgic reminiscences. Lying on his bed, he sees the crescent moon and the falling, untainted Northern snow through his window.

For two years, this was how the once-colonel Roy Mustang spent his nights—lonely, cold, contemplating, and utterly empty in his small, wooden sentry cabin. Being reassigned was his own doing. All he needed was seclusion from the world, to run away from the memories of his man-slaughter. He was a coward, afraid to hold the title of the Flame Alchemist once more.

His thoughts are now blank; he has nothing more to think of. He places a hand on his left eye, removes its eye patch, and places the black leather on his bedside table. Finally, he shuts his sleep-deprived eyes, while the moonlight that clothed him disappeared from his sight.

_He feels an intense throbbing in his chest, a searing, ripping burn. Fire—fire everywhere. Flames scorch his wounds as he tries to break free of an imperceptible force that pins him against a wall. He sees a tall, robust figure amongst the ashes, blurry and indistinct. The silhouette of a child appears. It is strangled, choked, and terrifyingly squeezed by the larger body. As the child squirms from freedom of the iron grasp, he hears a sickening snap of the bones. The child now hangs lifeless, motionless, and unmoving... _

He is abruptly awakened. The phone rings. For how long it has been ringing, he would never know. Moreover, he has no clue of how long he has slept. He shakily stands, loosing his balance once or twice. In the pitch black room, he finds his way to the ringing, stumbles, but picks himself up again, with the fear of missing a phone call.

At last, his clumsiness comes to a halt, as he picks up the receiver.

"...Corporal? Corporal Roy Mustang?" a feminine voice echoes. He struggles to remember, for the last two years, he has heard so little of anyone. Smoothing back his jet black hair, he rummages for entries in his mental directory.

It was a strange occurrence to him that anyone would call a lowly military soldier in the dead of night. Was it an invasion from the citizens of Drachma? Hostiles crossing the border? Or has Olivier Armstrong called in need of an outlet for her insults?

"Yes, this is Corporal Roy Mustang, speaking."

A long, silent lull fills the air. His heart starts to race, unaware of the mysterious caller. He waits for an answer from the other line.

"It's me, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Have you forgotten?"

His heart drops into his stomach with a thud; the sudden rush of cold blood leaves his temples throbbing as he hears her soothing, familiar tone. He stares blankly into space, overwhelmed, picturing her face, her eyes, her hair or how much she has changed by the sound of her voice.

"L-Lieutenant, it's been long."

"Yes, it's been long—too long," she pauses and sighs deeply. He smiles at this. Her sighs have always been an indication of her frustration during his lazy heydays, but he assumes, that this one might have just been a sigh of relief.

She continues, "I have to keep this brief; they're calling it a day, and the office is starting to close."

He hears the noises of Central Command in the background, all officers bidding their goodbyes to each other—a daily scene missed by the former colonel.

"The higher-ups decided that Second Lieutenants Havoc and Breda visit you at your station by tomorrow. You know, keep you some company, to check how you're doing."

To him, it was a great disappointment, knowing that she wasn't staying long in their conversation, moreover, by the fact that she was not assigned to see him. No, she possibly couldn't witness how low he'd gone. He was a train wreck, a mess, the ruins of a once-great alchemist in the upper echelons of the military.

"How is Central, Lieutenant?"

"Fine. Paperwork's been easier without a slacking colonel," she amusingly replies with a discreet, saccharine laugh.

"...and Black Hayate?"

"He misses biting the hand that fed him table scraps from the mess hall."

The Corporal douses himself in the moment, savouring the Lieutenant's voice, keeping it in his memory for the silent, isolated, lonesome nights that would follow. He knew that this phone call soon would come to an end. Again, a hushed calm gravitates between them. They wait, shrouded in each others' presence—the sounds of their breathing were adequate enough.

"I have to hang up. They're going to lock the gates soon. I guess I'll be calling you again... when they tell me to."

A sudden rush of adrenaline surges through his veins, urging for him to selfishly prolong his time with her.

"Wait—Lieutenant—I..."

"Yes, Corporal?"

"...It's nothing. I apologize. You can hang up, if you see it fit."

"Alright. And Corporal Mustang," a lengthy pause arises, "I worry about you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Goodnight."

Her voice trails off, and he only hears the clicking of her receiver. Despite the disconnection, he still presses the phone on his ear, hoping, anticipating, and waiting for her to speak again, as though the lines were never cut.

He realizes that he cannot sleep again soon; he is pestered by the faint echoes of her velveteen words, her tone, and her diction. His eye is wide open, his senses—heightened. He renders sleep of worthless value. He notices a chill in his body; _a glass of whiskey wouldn't hurt_, he thinks to himself.

On the cupboard he spots the half-empty crystalline bottle of bourbon. This was his frequent companion, and not once has it failed to relive him of the wintry climate. He pours himself a glass, and finds a worthy view of the falling snowflakes.

He sits on his trusty wooden chair, bathing himself in the moonlight. The amber liquid in his hand glimmered, reminding him of the philosopher's stone in its fluid form. He takes a swig from the glass, and feels the bourbon trickle down his throat onto his empty stomach. The liquor intoxicates him, as he fills another glass and downs it, coating his whole being with warmth.

He again remembers her from a decade ago—he, an apprentice of her father. Before First Lieutenant Hawkeye had evolved into a valiant, sharp woman of substance, she had been of a girlish demeanour—a shy, dreamy, introverted pubescent girl. He wonders if the battles of Ishbal had prematurely turned her into an austere female sniper, just as he was altered into a bloodthirsty ignition machine.

Two doses of booze were not enough to quench the Corporal's melancholy. He drinks and drinks, until the bottle is just but a hollow container. Disoriented, confused, and light-headed— the pitiful Roy Mustang scrambles across the room, feeling his way through. He directs himself to the tattered mattress he calls a bed, and dozes off to sleep, with the taste of alcohol still on his lips.

The morning sunshine glares at him as he opens his eye. His mouth is dry; he struggles to move as his muscles ache intolerably. A sharp pain at the back of his head throbs in time with the clock's ticking. He musters all strength to sit up, ignoring the way his shirt—now damp with sweat—clings to his back. Finally, he is able to stand with slight instability. Nausea—he senses a need to gag, to regurgitate last night's intake. His current lack of depth-perception makes it difficult for him to make his way to the cabin toilet.

He suffers violent convulsions as he heaves out his stomach, leaning over the washbowl on his forearms. Only the brown liquor is expelled as he coughs his insides out, and nothing less. With heavy, ragged breaths, he looks up, and he sees himself in the mirror. His eyes are wet with tears induced by the pain of gagging, and his mouth filled with mucid, acid-smelling saliva dripping onto the drain.

Roy Mustang _was _a capable commander, an exceptional tactician, well-versed in various strains of combat theory and particularly talented in the realms of surreptitious information-gathering, covert operations and enemy ensnarement, whose ultimate desire was to be the next Fuhrer of Amestris. Where is this man now? A lowly, worthless, vomiting being has replaced him in all his glory. His frequent visions of the past—the Ishbal genocide, his comrades massacred in battle, the death of Selim Bradley and Maes Hughes were all consequences of his foolishness. These had all taken a toll on him and had pounded on his dignity, rendering him numbed to the outside world.

Needless to say, his persona is as tainted as his current physical state—soiled, filthy, and contaminated.

He unclothes himself bare, and decides then, that a quick wash would relieve him of the dank atmosphere. Slipping into the showers, he remembers how water was his enemy, and now, it is a friend, camouflaging the tears he has been shedding, as he realizes the extent of his deterioration. He cannot conceal his miseries anymore; he shifts his weight forward on to the wall, and bangs his clenched fist, mourning in self-pity.

A few moments of grieving follow, he then remembers the soon arrival of Lieutenants Breda and Havoc. They cannot catch their former commander in his defencelessness. He mustn't expose a weakness to anyone— not even to his closest subordinates.

Grabbing a towel, he dries himself completely, and passes by a mirror, he stares at himself, seeing the wounds on his torso that have healed. The scars of his almost-death have stayed—a constant reminder of his mortality, his vulnerability. The mark of King Bradley's blade had etched a line across his shoulder, stopping short of the heart. He clothes himself in his blue military uniform, taking note of Amestris' coat of arms, as well as his lone-starred insignia, signifying his measly rank as a corporal.

Alas, it has come to wait for the Lieutenants; he stations himself at the foot of the cabin, in knee-high snow. He uncontrollably shivers, exhales plumes of smokes from his lips, and feels his fingers freezing up. He hears voices. Was he already undergoing hypothermia to have heard and not seen anyone? To his relief, he sees two figures—one, tall, and the other, pudgy, closing in the distance. He realizes that the persons he has been waiting for have indeed, arrived. He stands firm, prepared to greet the incoming superiors.

"Welcome Sirs, Lieutenants Havoc and Breda."

With an accompanying salute, he guides them inside the cabin. He has now forgotten how to socialize with his subordinates—he stays quiet, only answering when spoken to. They sit by the fireplace, with cups of coffee in hand.

"It's good to see you well, Sir"

"Forget the 'sir'. I'm a regular soldier now."

"Okay, then, Corporal Mustang..."

Lieutenant Breda nudges Havoc to the side upon hearing his tactlessness, and seeing the disappointment in Roy Mustang's face. As an attempt of hospitableness, he prepares the fireplace to warm the newcomers. The said corporal refuses to use his alchemical abilities, but instead reaches for the matches, and strikes them, with great difficulty.

"It's like you to volunteer for service out here, Corporal."

"It is my intention to do all I can for my country, in strength and in weakness."

Both Lieutenants look at each other, puzzled by the former Alchemist's words. They had expected him to still remain the same, throughout the course of two years.

"I've got a lighter... If you need some help with the matches I could—"

"Shut up! Damn it, Havoc, I don't need your damn help!" snaps Roy, breaking the matchstick in two. Realizing his aggression, he buries his face into his hands, ashamed of what he'd become.

"Colonel..." sighs Havoc.

"I haven't used Alchemy since that day."

"...but you were the Flame Alchemist."

"When I try to, I see all the men whose lives my foolishness cost," he places his hand on his concealed left eye, "in this eye, I can still see—Maes, Selim, my subordinates, the people of Ishbal..."

They sit in the silence for an extended period of time, with the feeling of awkwardness gravitating in the air above them. Lieutenant Breda, taking advantage of the situation, removes from his breast pocket a small, brown envelope, unfolding it as he does.

"Em... First Lieutenant Hawkeye wanted me to give you this. I don't know what it is exactly, but—"

Roy's ears pick up as he hears the mention of Lieutenant Hawkeye. He stares at the envelope as Breda hands it to him, wondering what it could be. He gently unravels it, holding it as if it were the most fragile of things.

Photographs. They were photographs of everyone he held dear—his drunken spree with Maes; an office picture of himself with Breda, Havoc, Fuery, and Falman; the Elric brothers; and even one with Riza, having in her arms a wide-eyed Black Hayate.

His heart swells with utter bliss. He leafs through them a second time, gazing at their smiles. Oh how happy they were, their eyes sparkling with euphoria. How he wished he was back. How he wished he were in the presence of them again.

"I guess Lieutenant Hawkeye collected them for you ever since you were gone, Sir." says Breda, disregarding the inappropriateness of addressing Roy of a lower rank.

"tell her... Tell her 'thank you', Lieutenant."

"Will do."

"How is she?"

"She still scolds us for not doing our work properly, Colonel—I mean, Corporal." replies Havoc, who has started to light a cigarette. "She frequently stops by your desk, just being there... sighing all the time."

"I see." he says, realizing the First Lieutenant's concern for him.

Breda notices the darkening skies and takes a glimpse of his wristwatch. It is time to go for him and Havoc. They bid their goodbyes, with a promise of returning in the near future. The corporal ushers them outside, seeing them off until they disappear in the horizon.

He is alone once more; silence is his main companion. In his hands he grasps the photographs sent by Lieutenant Hawkeye. He looks at her picture longingly, grazing a finger over the area to where her face was printed, like when he had brushed his hand against her hair in the past. Just then, the memories of her floods again like a tidal wave.

Putting back the photograph along with the others, he detects writing at the back. He flips her picture, and to his surprise, she has written a note to him:

_I wait for the Flame Alchemist's return. _

He smirks, for these seven words have rekindled—ignited, even, an old part of himself that he has kept among the shadows.

* * *

There you go. Another one from me.

If you enjoyed this piece, please, do tell me. It will make me happy.

Or if you think I need some improvement on my writing, not hesitate to comment. I don't bite.

Thank you for your patronage.


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